


Sometimes What's Meant To Save Us

by noadventureshere



Series: The Observation of Trifles [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Panic Attacks, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-28
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-12-08 03:38:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11638155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noadventureshere/pseuds/noadventureshere
Summary: The world held its breath as the thief vaulted over the chasm between two buildings. Seconds later a streak of detective made to follow. The space was wider than it seemed and Sherlock teetered on the edge for a breathless moment before landing safe and running ahead.





	Sometimes What's Meant To Save Us

"John we're losing him!"

  
Sherlock ran full speed after their quarry. As always, three steps ahead of John.

  
"Careful!" John's strangled cry floated in the air. They rushed ahead of it in the night. It went unheard, as words of caution are often wont to do.

  
The world held its breath as the thief vaulted over the chasm between two buildings. Seconds later a streak of detective made to follow. The space was wider than it seemed and Sherlock teetered on the edge for a breathless moment before landing safe and running ahead.

  
John Watson may be shorter, but his legs are powerful. He makes the jump with less trouble and more anger. What had been an entertaining chase was suddenly no longer fun. The thief was backed into a corner. No more rooftops to dash across, they had reached the end of this particular string of buildings. Sherlock slowed to a walk and smiled. He was about to saunter towards the man and make a citizen's arrest. But desperate men and all that.

  
A quick movement of the thief's hands towards his waist brought the detective to a halt. He cocked his head, what new development would this be?

  
An even quicker movement by Sherlock's side resolved itself into the form of John Watson tackling the thief to the ground. A brief struggle later and his hands were zip tied together and he was relieved of his knives.

  
The murderous cutlery made a rather impressive pile. The particular blade he had been reaching for was a most wicked throwing knife. All notched edges designed for damages coming and going.

  
"John," Sherlock began.

  
"Nope. We done here? I think we're done. I'm calling Lestrade and getting this cleaned up. Then I'm going home. I need a cuppa." John strode off, leaving Sherlock behind feeling off-balance. What was wrong? A successful case always left John happy. Not angry.

  
John found the roof access door locked and shook the handle in frustration. He had to wait here for Lestrade after all.

  
Ignoring the curses of their fallen prisoner, Sherlock stared at John.

  
The man was pacing back and forth near the access door like the panther out of a Rilke poem. He was expansive in his fury, but tightly controlled. If he could head him off, maybe Sherlock could find out what was the matter. But every time he tried, he doctor wove around him like he wasn't even there and stubbornly refused to even look at him.

  
Lestrade's officers popped open the door shortly and John took it like a gift. He pelted down the staircase and clattered out of sight. Sherlock frowned as he had to give the no doubt incompetent officers a run-down of the prisoner. That was usually John's job. When he extracted himself from them with a promise of statements tomorrow, he searched for John.

  
John was gone.

  
Sherlock walked the twelve blocks home in poor spirits. He had just worked himself into a nice lather of self-righteousness when he arrived home to find the flat still dark and silent. Mycroft hadn't taken John, nor was anyone else a threat. Mary was gone like a figment of a dream; there was nowhere else for John to go.

  
He was home. Somewhere. There was some of the mud they stepped in earlier crouched under a window as they waited for the thief to make his move. John had called him brilliant for being able to predict that it would be this house and tonight. He had grinned as the thief caught sight of them somehow and ran.

  
Sherlock wanted to recapture that moment of uncomplicated joy. What had gone wrong?

  
He realized the flat wasn't completely silent after all. He shed his coat and quietly made his way up the last flight of stairs to John's room. There was a slight creaking coming from the far side of the room. A noise you could mistake for the night breeze if you didn't know better.

  
Sherlock paused in the doorway trying to acclimate his eyes to the darkness.

  
"John?" The name escaped him and he was ashamed to think how unsure and small it sounded in the empty room.

  
Or, not so empty after all.

  
Sherlock walked around the far side of John's bed to see the small shape of his friend, huddled around himself on the floor. John didn't bother pretending he didn't see Sherlock. He raised his eyes and Sherlock was astonished to see tears on John's cheeks.

  
Sherlock sank to his knees in front of him, puzzlement plain even by moonlight.

  
John cleared his throat, but his voice was gravelly and hoarse. "The roof Sherlock. You almost fell." Sherlock was thrown. A little bit of a slipped footing? "I couldn't bear losing you again." This time the voice was so quiet it was a strain to make out the words.

  
John Watson gazed at his friend and tried to impart the horror of his thoughts through eye contact alone. They were British. These were things uncomfortable to speak of. A stiff upper lip and all that. John was a soldier, where was his composure now? Now that they were safe, John broke down.

  
Sherlock's thoughts swirled in his head. He knew this was something He could not fix with an I'm-sorry. He scooted closer to his friend and laid a hand cautiously over one of John's.

  
John gripped it hard. Harder than expected. Even when he was breaking down, somehow John still kept a tight lid on himself. Sherlock let instinct instead of intellect take over and tugged lightly on John's hand. They fell together and Sherlock tucked John close to his chest. His tears seemed to be renewed as his shoulders began to shake. Sherlock smoothed a hand up and down John's back as his friend grabbed fistfuls of his shirt.

  
Eventually, John stilled. He released his hold on Sherlock's shirt and drew himself away slightly. Sherlock looked into his eyes and they were clear and bright and so, so sorry. John read the same thing in Sherlock's eyes and sighed. Sherlock made a wordless sound of protest when John tried to draw further away. John just inclined his head towards the close comfort of the bed. Using each other to stand, neither one of them let go of the other while they arraigned themselves on top of the covers, tightly wrapped up in one another.

 

***

  
Mrs Hudson was looking for laundry when she found them in the morning. Sherlock had managed to kick off one shoe and drape his body across John's chest and John curled around him.

  
She was hopeful this would be the beginning of a new chapter in their relationship. But even if not, she saved the image away in her mind as she tiptoed out again. She could hope.


End file.
